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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25236388">Ange ou Démon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caladenia/pseuds/Caladenia'>Caladenia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Trek: Voyager</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Interpol - Freeform, art world, fluff with a bit of angst</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:35:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,491</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25236388</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caladenia/pseuds/Caladenia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Senior Officer Chakotay from Interpol meets a mysterious woman at New York's Metropolitan Museum.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>J/C Photo Prompt Fic Fest 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Horses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Inspired by this great manip from Coffeeblack75 who also helped me whip this fic into a much better shape.<br/>My first Modern AU, and I'm thoroughly enjoying myself travelling the globe via Google Earth and visiting museums virtually.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>The auburn-haired woman was facing away, studying the photographs lining the wall of the alcove. It gave Chakotay plenty of time to gaze down the back of her black dress which reminded him of a shibari art work. He walked past slowly, breathing in a faint familar scent.</p><p>While staying in Paris the week before, he’d bought a small bottle of the very same Givenchy perfume for his sister. Couldn’t remember the name, but it was expensive and elegant, like the mysterious woman, from her hair gathered high and revealing the pale skin of her neck, to the large sparkling bracelet on her wrist. His eyes travelled down the length of the zipper, between bare shoulders dotted with freckles, past patches of skin and down to—</p><p>His earpiece vibrated, and he turned aside to face the empty corridor. It was nearing closing time, and there were not many visitors left wandering the Met.</p><p>
  <em>“Tuvok here. All security personnel, please report to the Main Hall in exactly fifteen minutes for the start of the function. Senior Officer Chakotay, I would like you to mingle with the visitors and see if you recognise anybody.”</em>
</p><p>Chakotay discreetly tilted his head towards the microphone hidden in the chest pocket of his waistcoat. “Understood.”</p><p>Tuvok might be a stickler for punctuality, but as the acting head of the Met’s security department, he was taking Interpol’s alert seriously. In contrast, the local NYPD Precinct detective had made it clear that he had more important crimes to prevent than the hypothetical loss of a few overpriced and antiquated works of art. His actual words had been more dismissive.</p><p>The woman in the black dress had vanished while he was speaking to Tuvok, and he lost himself in a nearby maze of rooms dedicated to nineteenth-century European paintings while waiting for the evening guests to arrive.</p><p>Chakotay doubted any bumbling police presence would deter the highly sophisticated gang of art thieves he’d been pursuing over the past few months. They took advantage of any chinks in the buildings or the people, and adapted their methods to the conditions. An underground tunnel in Bilbao, a recently hired cleaning team at the Hermitage, a faulty fire alarm at Le Louvre. Each time, the security system had been hacked in a daring display of high-tech skills. The thieves were as fast as lightning and ruthlessly efficient, leaving nothing behind except a bare wall.</p><p>They probably had a buyer already lined up when they struck, but that line of investigation was for his boss, Owen Paris, head of the small Interpol’s Cultural Art Crime unit, to pursue. Chakotay much preferred the old-style method of analysing clues, listening to whispers and anticipating the next hit before catching the thieves in the act.</p><p>They were getting more brazen, and he was getting close to them. He could feel it. The Guggenheim Bilbao Museum, St Petersburg State Hermitage, Le Louvre. So close, and still too late. Working alone had its drawbacks. In Paris, he had missed the theft of a small, but precious Vermeer by a couple of days. Rumours among the underground art world hinted at the gang heading to the US, and he’d returned home.</p><p>Following a hunch, he’d gone straight to the Met. The gang preferred high-profile big-name museums, places which didn’t want the loss of important works to be made public, lest they lose the trust of their sponsors and the money from rich benefactors. The Met fitted the bill perfectly.</p><p>Suspecting the gang sent an experienced scout to check the lay of the land one last time before the heist, he had trawled through many hours of CCTV footage at Bilbao and Le Louvre to try to identify that person, to no avail. Maybe tonight’s do, the event of the year on the Met’s calendar, would flush them out. It did seem that the thefts closely followed highly publicised events like this one.</p><p>He ambled through the rooms, watching the few visitors hurrying through before the close of the day, rather than the paintings. The scenes were over-bucolic for his taste, and although he appreciated the near-realistic technique, the subjects lacked a spark of life in his opinion. There were a few seascapes, and a couple of nudes which did nothing for him, amid flat landscapes dotted with forlorn cows. He’d seen more of the same in Europe over the past few weeks.</p><p>Turning a corner, he came face to face with a monumental painting spanning an entire wall. Hands in his pockets and jacket hanging from his arm, he took a step back to get a better grasp of the work which had stopped him in his tracks.</p><p>His eyes were drawn to a handful of draft horses, large in body and spirit, prancing down a wide boulevard, while rearing and wrestling against their handlers. Bathed in light, a pair of massive greys strode off to the right with flared nostrils and bunched muscles. He could almost hear the neighing of the horses over the shouts of the men, some with their sleeves rolled up on thick arms, who rode or held the reins of the powerful animals with seeming ease. The whole scene breathed of power and chaos barely kept in check.</p><p>A raspy voice sounded behind him. “The composition of a Caravaggio and the curves of a Rubens.”</p><p>He immediately guessed who the owner of that low voice was, but he stayed focused on the painting, reading the information on the side panel. ‘<em>The Horse Fair</em>’ by Rosa Bonheur. Not a name he recognised, but then his background was in Central American cultural heritage rather than Old World paintings.</p><p>“Inspired by Gericault, don’t you think?” he ventured, not wanting to be left behind in throwing a few names around.</p><p>High heels sounded against the timber floor, then stopped close by. “Well observed. Bonheur’s style has often been compared to that of male painters. A sign of the times, I assume, although her private life was anything but constrained by masculine expectations.”</p><p>He turned around. The woman from the Photography gallery was as beautiful as he had imagined from just admiring her back. Piercing blue eyes watched him over a sensitive mouth and a firm chin. There was nothing shy or demure in her stance, although the front of the dress in contrast to the back hid much too much for his liking.</p><p>“Is that so?” he asked, intrigued by both the woman and where the conversation had veered to so quickly.</p><p>“You would be surprised what some of those nineteenth-century women were up to when out of the limelight,” she said with dancing eyes.</p><p>“Far be it for me to condemn her.” He smiled and noticed her pupils widening in response. “She certainly recognised beauty in strength,” he added, tilting his head at her.</p><p>Her mouth lifted in a lopsided smile, full of mirth. “You seem to be a good judge of both, Mister…?”</p><p>“Chakotay,” he said. The painting had lost its lustre now, and he was more than fascinated by the woman standing in front of him. “Are you here for this evening’s opening?”</p><p>“A late invitation. I only arrived in town this afternoon and I thought I would come early to acquaint myself with the great works of the museum.”</p><p>“An art lover, then, Miss…?”</p><p>“Miss Janeway,” she said, extending her hand. “Kathryn Janeway. I deal in art acquisitions for discerning private collectors.”</p><p>He returned the gesture with a firm handshake, his interest piqued. “May I be so bold as to ask if you’d like me to accompany you at the function, Miss Janeway?”</p><p>She gave him a quick appraisal, her eyes acknowledging his tattoo without lingering. Too many people questioned him about it within a few minutes in a conversation, and he found it refreshing that she hadn't mention it.</p><p>“With pleasure,” she said. She threaded her hand through his arm, and they left the room side by side. “But if we are going to spend the evening together, Mister Chakotay, you’ll have to tell me more about you and what you are doing at the Met.”</p><p>
  <strong>⁂</strong>
</p><p>She said something about having to meet an early client on the other side of town, as dawn tinged the sky outside. After a lingering goodbye kiss, she gathered her clothes strewn from the bed to the door, hastily dressed and left him to fall back to sleep.</p><p>He woke up in the sun-drenched hotel room, Kathryn’s perfume still scenting the bed sheets and his mind groggy from a night he would remember for a very long time.</p><p>Beauty and mystery. Strength and seduction. Moments of vulnerability when she bucked and rocked in rapture at his hands. Hints of many secrets which he hid behind moans and burning touches.</p><p>Danger amidst heaven.</p><p>Now fully awake, he retrieved his boxer shorts before walking to the side board. A postcard from the Tate Modern stood against the fancy coffee machine, words written in a small and neat handwriting on the recto: ‘<em>I’m</em><em> sorry. KJ</em>.’</p><p>Half an hour later, Chakotay was staring at a bare wall in the Met’s Photography gallery. The same evening, he landed in London to rain and fog.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. One Or The Other</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/>
<p>"Chakotay.”</p>
<p>“Cavit.”</p>
<p>“You two gentlemen know each other?” the Tate Modern director asked in a distracted voice as another squadron of heavily armed police spread across the open space between the Thames and the front of the building.</p>
<p>The last time Chakotay had seen Cavit, the man had slammed Owen’s office door on his way out of Interpol. As far as Chakotay was aware, none of the deals in forgeries Cavit had apparently been involved in had ever been proven. But Interpol’s reputation was paramount, and the irate man had been asked to resign. Cavit’s shady past had clearly not stopped him from getting a security job at London’s most famous art museum, though.</p>
<p>“From a long time ago, Director Neelix,” Cavit said, giving Chakotay a warning glance.</p>
<p>“Good. Good. Then, Mr Cavit, would you mind showing Mr Chakotay around? I’m sure he’ll be impressed by the work you’ve done upgrading the building’s security.” The director kept an anxious look on what was happening outside, wringing his hands. “I’m sorry, Mr Chakotay, but as you can see the police are taking the latest terrorist warning very seriously. Whatever those thieves you’ve talked about have got in mind, I’m sure they won’t try anything here tonight.”</p>
<p>There was little Chakotay could offer without getting into details he had no intention of divulging, and he followed Cavit into a large open-style office.</p>
<p>The man plonked himself in a plush chair, rows of CCTV screens shining behind him. “Don’t worry, Chaks. Neelix is right. Your little gang isn’t going to strike tonight. Not with armed police running around out there looking for some hapless terrorist.”</p>
<p>With no spare chair in sight, Chakotay sat on the corner of the desk, watching the screens. Museum staff were ushering people out of the various exhibition rooms and back into the cavernous Turbine Hall, keeping them calm and away from the exits. Meanwhile, Director Neelix was a smudge of orange and canary rushing about. There was no sign of Kathryn Janeway, and he wasn’t at all sure if he should feel relieved his gut feeling had been wrong for once, or disappointed he wouldn’t see her again.</p>
<p>Either way, he’d said nothing to Owen when he’d explained where he was going, and deceit weighed heavily on his mind. Pushing the feeling away, he brought his attention back to Cavit.</p>
<p>“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said. “The Tate Modern, of all places. Very impressive.”</p>
<p>Cavit sat up with a smile. “Can’t complain. At least, Neelix doesn’t look over my shoulder every five minutes,” he said, almost preening. “And you got my job, looks like. Congratulations,” he added, his smile disappearing.</p>
<p>“Thanks,” Chakotay said, curtly.</p>
<p>“Anyway, why do you think your thieves would come here?” Cavit leaned over the desk when Chakotay didn’t answer straight away. “You can tell me. It’s not like I didn’t know already about those works being stolen. Word tends to travel fast in the art world. The Louvre a week ago. The Met yesterday—”</p>
<p>“What about the Met?” Chakotay asked, intrigued. He hadn’t mentioned the American museum in his conversation with Neelix and Cavit.</p>
<p>The man’s eyes darted away. “Heard rumours something had happened there too. That’s all.”</p>
<p>Chakotay held back his annoyance. A leak already, despite an agreement between Owen Paris, the Director of the Met and Tuvok to keep the theft of the rare Walker Evans’ photographs off the record until further notice. Or maybe the leak had come from Interpol itself. That had been Owen’s fear for some time: that somebody in the international anti-crime organisation was somehow involved in the thefts.</p>
<p>Again, not an angle Chakotay had been told to look into. He just hoped that whoever was in charge of that side of the investigation would find nothing.</p>
<p>But one thing was sure. No way was he going to tell Cavit about Kathryn and the card she’d left on the sideboard of his New-York hotel room. “Following on a lead,” he said.</p>
<p>Cavit’s frown deepened. “A lead? What kind of lead?”</p>
<p>He was fast getting on Chakotay’s nerves. “How many security people do you have in the building?” he asked instead.</p>
<p>“Enough. Counter Terrorism Command asked us to assist them, and I’ve sent my people to secure all entrances in case some nasty guy tries to come inside. Nobody will be coming or leaving for the next few hours, so, if I were you, I would relax.”</p>
<p>“Thanks for the invite, but I’d like to look around first.” That he hadn’t seen Kathryn didn’t mean she wasn’t here. Unless her leaving the card behind had been a major coincidence. In his line of work, he tended to trust his gut feelings—even though they had let him down on occasion, more often than not they paid off.</p>
<p>Cavit glared. “What for? Everything’s in hand.”</p>
<p>“You know Owen. He likes his staff to keep on their toes.”</p>
<p>The man’s expression darkened at the mention of Paris’ name, then he shrugged, seemingly unbothered. “All right, but the Exhibition space on level two is off-limits. We’ve been doing ceiling renovations at night, and nobody is allowed after hours except for me and the Director.” He foraged in a drawer before throwing Chakotay a lanyard with a coloured plastic rectangle dangling from it. “VIP pass. We wouldn’t want you to be taken for a terrorist or a thief, would we?”</p>
<p>The phone rung, and Cavit threw the lanyard at Chakotay then lifted the receiver to his ear, put his feet on the desk and waved his hand in dismissal.</p>
<p>Chakotay caught the pass with one hand and put it around his neck. After leaving the security room, he went straight to the second storey of the main building. A construction site within the museum? That meant the CCTV cameras in that space were most probably offline. A godsend opportunity to someone looking to plan a robbery.</p>
<p>
  <strong>⁂</strong>
</p>
<p>“Don’t try to stop me, Chakotay.” Clad in black pants and jumper, her long hair hidden under a soft hat, and a bag—no doubt full of loot—flung over her shoulder, Kathryn had the clichéd look of a small-time criminal.</p>
<p>Lifting an eyebrow, Chakotay leaned against the internal scaffolding occupying most of the Exhibition floor, while keeping a sharp eye on her. The sophisticated art dealer wearing high heels and an alluring dress he’d met at the Met only the evening before had drawn him to her, and he had willingly fallen into her orbit. In turn, the naked woman, bare of any artifice or so he’d thought, with her soft skin glistening over strong limbs, had brought his body alive for one long night. But, this thief, with her low boots making her look so insignificant, was just another crook who cared nothing for art or law.</p>
<p>Obviously, he’d learned nothing from his dealings with Seska. He should have recognised the signs and not succumbed to another scheming woman’s carefully crafted charm. He should have stayed in LA and toughed it up.</p>
<p>“You’ll have to do better than that,” he said, his voice getting frostier at the memory of the bare wall at the Met. Was her name even Kathryn? Somehow it suited her, but she was clearly a master at disguising her true nature.</p>
<p>“I can’t. You have to let me go.”</p>
<p>Was she pleading with him? “Why? You seemed very keen on my company last night.”</p>
<p>Her shoulders drooped. “I’m sorry. It was a mistake. I should never have…”</p>
<p>A mistake? The woman was now piling stinging words om top of ridiculous demands. But what, or more to the point who had he hoped to find by coming here? Unless…</p>
<p>His jaw tightened. “Oh, I see! I let you go because…what? You’re going to blackmail me for having had sex with the petty thief I’ve been chasing for the past four months?”</p>
<p>“Of course, not. Who do you take me for?” she said, her glare almost lethal. Then she lowered her eyes to the small statue safely wrapped in her hand. “I don’t have time for this.”</p>
<p>A blur at his side. A gun appearing out of nowhere in the corner of his eye. A shout. “Look out! She’s armed!”. The muzzle of a weapon levelled at Kathryn’s chest. Cavit’s finger on the trigger.</p>
<p>Chakotay’s early career as a cop on the streets of LA had honed his reflexes. He shoved Cavit aside, a single shot ringing loudly in his ear as the two men crashed onto the hard floor.</p>
<p>A moan of pain. He’d been too slow once again. Too many days spent safely ensconced behind a desk since he’d left the LAPD. Too many months trying to forget, but the blood was back, seeping through her fingers holding her upper leg and her face turning pale and he was falling, falling into—</p>
<p>“What the hell, Cavit?” he leapt up and crossed the room to help the woman. “She’s got no gun.”</p>
<p>“Instead of helping her, get the police. I’ll watch her.” Cavit was up too, his sidearm back, his hands not trembling. Since when did museum security people run around with weapons?</p>
<p>Kathryn squeezed Chakotay’s arm, leaving a bloody imprint on his coat. “Go,” she whispered. “I won’t say anything about us.”</p>
<p>Chakotay didn’t respond and dropped to one knee to get a better look at her wound. The bullet had gone through the side of the thigh, tearing through muscle without hitting the bone. Painful, but not life threatening if he could halt the bleeding.</p>
<p>“You go, Cavit. I’ll stay with her.”</p>
<p>Taking his scarf off, he wrapped it around her leg and used the lanyard to hold it. It would have to do until she got medical help. Kathryn’s breathing hitched, but she made no other sound. Tough as nails and an enigma wrapped in one.</p>
<p>“I see. You two in cahoots, aren’t you?” Cavit’s voice went cold. “Move away from her.” The hand holding the gun waved at him impatiently.</p>
<p>Chakotay stood and positioned himself in front of the injured woman. He showed his empty hands, now streaked with red. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m not armed, and neither is she. This woman needs medical—”</p>
<p>The sound of heavy boots resonated up the large concrete staircase leading to the Exhibition floor. Cavit moved to the door while keeping an eye on the two of them, and shouted. “They are up here. Be careful, the woman’s got a bag. Could be a bomb.”</p>
<p>Shit, shit, shit. Whatever Cavit was playing at, this wasn’t going to end well. The last thing anybody needed was to be caught in a situation fast escalating out of control.</p>
<p>“Chakotay,” Kathryn said between gritted teeth, her hand coming out of her bag, holding a metal cylinder. “You need to go. I’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>The small canister rolled out of her fingers towards Cavit who jumped back. “Hey,” he said, taking his eyes off the pair. “What’s—” He disappeared behind the thick fumes pouring out of the smoke grenade, while Kathryn hopped away in the opposite direction, grabbing her bag. Chakotay ran after her, dodging the heavy plastic sheets dangling from the scaffolding. He’d made his decision. Whoever that woman was, wherever she was going, he would follow her.</p>
<p>“Let me,” he said as she awkwardly lifted her leg to access the gaping opening of a builder’s chute. Without waiting for a response, he sat Kathryn in his lap, her bag secure in her hands, and they went down the low-angled metal slide. They landed on broken ceiling tiles rather than the sharp glass and metal he’d been expecting. Leaning over the side of the bin, Kathryn gently put the bag down on the pavement.</p>
<p>“Go back, Chakotay,” she said as he helped her climb down. “Go back to the Tate now, and tell the police you tried to apprehend me, but you lost me in the fog.” Swaying a little, she hitched the bag back on her shoulder.</p>
<p>He shook his head. The whole situation smelled of a set-up. Instead of feeling relieved he’d finally caught his thief, her hand literally in the bag, his instinct shouted at him that there was something else going on here. “I think I’ll stick around for a little longer. Besides,” he indicated her leg, “you could do with the help.”</p>
<p>She jutted her chin. “Thanks, but I can take care of myself.”</p>
<p>“Or, I could just arrest you, and you can explain yourself at the nearest police station,” he said, crossing his arms. Interpol officers had no power of arrest, but most people didn’t know that.</p>
<p>This time, she glared at him before turning aside with a frustrated sigh. “All right,” she said. “Come on, then. My car’s close.”</p>
<p>“What about the Security police?” He easily kept pace with her while scanning the alleyways draped in fog and darkness for armed uniforms and flashing lights.</p>
<p>“The terrorist warning was for an attack from the Thames. There won’t be any police here.”</p>
<p>“How can you be so sure?”</p>
<p>A small white car parked under the dim light of a lamp post emitted a soft beep-beep as she remotely opened the doors.</p>
<p>She smiled. “Because I’m the one who had the idea to involve Counter Terrorism. I needed a big enough distraction, so I could leave the building without getting caught.” Her smile disappeared. “Would have worked too, if it hadn’t been for you and Cavit.”</p>
<p>After putting the bag in the boot of the car, she moved towards the driver’s seat, holding onto the car for balance. He grabbed the keys from her hand. “I’ll drive.”</p>
<p>She blinked as if regular thoughts eluded her now. Without leaving her time to turn him down, Chakotay opened the driver’s door, squeezed his taller legs under the steering wheel, then moved the seat backwards, while Kathryn lowered herself gingerly into the passenger seat.</p>
<p>“Hospital first,” he said as he started the car, then checked his mirrors before pulling out. Sirens could be heard in the distance, fog and drizzle dampening the sound.</p>
<p>“No. No hospital. I’m fine.”</p>
<p>His hands tightened on the steering wheel. If he had learned anything about Kathryn Janeway over the past twenty-four hours, it was that she didn’t seem to bend to anybody else’s will. “So, where are we going?”</p>
<p>“A safe house. The GPS’s got the address.”</p>
<p>He glanced at her while negotiating the one-way lanes surrounding the Tate. Her gaze was fixed on the road ahead, although he suspected that she wasn’t seeing any of it. She didn’t look too good under the reddish street lights and winced every time the car hit a pothole, but the bleeding had slowed down. She wasn’t going to die on him, and for that he was grateful.</p>
<p>But there was much more he didn’t know about the woman at his side, and he did need some answers if only because he was now involved up to his neck. “Who are you working for?” he asked in his best cop voice.</p>
<p>“I can’t tell you,” she sighed.</p>
<p>“What’s in the bag?”</p>
<p>She shuffled in her seat. “You know what’s in there.”</p>
<p>“Why was Cavit so keen to kill you?”</p>
<p>A hesitation, as if she was just now asking herself the same question. “I don’t know. It wasn’t what I—” She put her hand to her brow. “Please, Chakotay, don’t go there. The less you know, the better.”</p>
<p>He mulled that over. Was she protecting him? What from? Maybe if he got more personal, he might get somewhere. “All right, then what about last night? A mistake, you said,” his voice turning harsh.</p>
<p>She bit her lower lip. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was unprofessional.”</p>
<p>Unprofessional? What the fuck was she talking about? He swerved around an upturned trash can he saw at the last minute. Kathryn was silent now, as if she couldn’t find anything more hurtful to say.</p>
<p>Why did it matter? He owed her nothing. He’d saved her life, most probably lost his career in the making and god knows why he’d thought it a good idea to follow her, and all he was getting in return were cryptic remarks on top of personal slights. He slammed on the brakes at a red light and turned towards her, ready to let rip.</p>
<p>The back of her head was resting against the headrest and her eyes were closed, the corners drawn by life-worn lines of exhaustion and pain. He’d never got used to that crashing feeling when the adrenaline rush ebbed and all the agony and hurts the body had suffered came back with a vengeance. One of the reasons why he’d left LAPD after getting shot one too many times in the name of duty.</p>
<p>The lights turned green, and he drove off without jostling the car. He didn’t know the city well and was thankful for the distraction, focusing his attention instead to driving on the wrong side of the road and following the GPS instructions through the dark and wet streets. Soon enough, they were driving through the countryside, the drizzle replaced by steady rain. Kathryn tossed about and murmured a few words he didn’t catch. Traffic was light, and he kept to the speed limit, noticing the route followed the back roads, avoiding major highways. It was clear that Kathryn Janeway wanted to avoid attention whenever possible.</p>
<p>A couple of hours after their hasty exit from the Tate, they arrived at their destination: a nondescript small factory in a run-down industrial suburb on the edge of Oxford. The roller door rose without making a noise at the press of the remote attached to the car key. Chakotay drove into an empty space devoid of windows, the door closing behind them noiselessly.</p>
<p>Kathryn woke up with a start when he opened the passenger door, and helped her out of the car. “I’ll take it from here,” she said, trying to extricate herself from his arm around her waist.</p>
<p>Oh, no. Not this time. “I want to have a look at your leg. Have you got a bed here?” he said. He felt rather than heard a rebuff forming in her chest. “Bed?” he repeated, tightening his hold on her.</p>
<p>She waved at a narrow steel staircase, and despite her protestations, he half-carried half-dragged her up the stairs, and then through the first door on the landing.</p>
<p>The room had been an office once upon a time and was bare of any personal touches, except for a couple of chairs, an unmade camp bed and a few clothes hanging from an overhead beam, the black shibari dress forsaken among them. He lowered Kathryn to the edge of the thin mattress, careful to keep her injured leg off the covers. “I can’t ask you to do more for me,” she said in a voice so low, he had to strain to catch her words.</p>
<p>“Please, Kathryn,” and he regretted not to have asked if she preferred a different name, “you don’t have to tell me anything, but let me…help.” He’d been ready to say ‘let me take care of you’, but he sensed she wouldn’t accept, or understand, the necessity of being cared for.</p>
<p>She lifted her head, her gaze guarded, and once again he feared she would refuse. “I’ll leave afterwards, if that’s what you want,” he quickly added.</p>
<p>At that, she nodded. “There’s a first-aid kit in the suitcase,” she indicated, “under the bed.”</p>
<p>He let out a short breath, already regretting the compromise he’d drawn from her, then pulled out the suitcase. The kit was well stocked—a necessity in her work, he guessed. What else might be stashed in there, he wondered, but this wasn’t the time.</p>
<p>He got a glass of water from the nearby bathroom and gave her some painkillers. “Take those,” he said.</p>
<p>While she swallowed the pills, he took her boots and socks off, then undid the lanyard and pulled the sodden scarf away. Bile came to his throat, but he pushed the stinging taste down. Kathryn swore under her breath, then hissed in pain when he lifted her off the bed and slid the pants down her legs in the same motion.</p>
<p>“A clean shot,” he said, dabbing at the skin which had turned blue and yellow underneath the dried blood. He felt nothing at touching her in this way even though twenty-four hours before those same thighs had squeezed the life out of him. Several times.</p>
<p>“The bullet went straight through the muscle without shattering. You’ll be sore for a while though.” He kept talking so he couldn’t hear the gun and smell the burnt gunpowder over the metallic taste of the blood spreading on the hot pavement, and the moans and death rattles—</p>
<p>Shaking off the unwelcome flashback to an episode in his life he thought he’d left well behind him, he dressed the wound with a clean bandage. A towel followed, held securely in place with the belt of a satin dressing gown he found in the suitcase. “There you are,” he said. “It will swell up, and you’ll be limping for a few days, but barring any infection, you should be good.”</p>
<p>“Thank you,” she said, her eyes closing by themselves.</p>
<p>He carefully lifted her legs onto the bed, then covered her with a blanket. “I’ll clean up and leave.”</p>
<p>“Stay. Please,” she mumbled, her fingers clasping his hand. She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, and he watched the reassuring rise and fall of the blanket over of her chest, her warm hand in his. There was that scent of hers again, as he bent over to push an errant lock of damp hair off her cheek—that perfume whose name, <em>Ange ou Démon</em>, he now remembered. He wondered if this woman who had sprung into his life out of nowhere was one or the other.</p>
<p>And whether it mattered.</p>
<p>After a few minutes where he almost dozed off himself, he got up to clean the mess he’d made, then did a quick reconnaissance of the abandoned factory. The other two upstairs rooms were empty of furniture, dust and old newspapers covering the floor. Downstairs, only a former staff kitchen seemed to be lived in. A small but new coffee machine sat proudly on a bare bench with a dozen used coffee pods in the bin underneath. A half-empty bottle of wine was the sole item in the dirty fridge with a 1998 calendar pinned to the side and showing women in various states of undress draped over large motorcycles.</p>
<p>The place stank of a lonely life on the run, far from the glitz and glamour of the Met. Who was the real Kathryn Janeway? The stubborn thief? The elegant art dealer? Or was there yet another side of her, as he strongly suspected?</p>
<p>Closing the fridge door, he considered getting some food and milk from the nearest corner store, but he was beat and didn’t want to leave Kathryn alone. Instead, he went back to check on her for the last time and fell asleep in a chair, his feet resting on the other.</p>
<p>He woke up to an empty room, the smell of coffee and sounds of voices drifting up the stairs.</p>
<p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Layers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
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<p>His training took over. He put his jacket on and tiptoed down the staircase, listening for anything untoward. If Kathryn was in trouble, he hoped she would have alerted him. The alluring aroma of pancakes joined that of coffee, and his stomach rumbled.</p>
<p>He was ready to make some noise to announce he was up and about, when a voice he hadn’t heard since leaving LA grew louder, and he paused.</p>
<p>“I’m telling you, no way he’s got anything to do with it.”</p>
<p>“I want to believe you, B’Elanna, but is it a coincidence he was at the Met? And then at the Tate?”</p>
<p>“So? He’s Interpol. What do you expect? He was an excellent detective when I knew him, and he’s been following your tracks.”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s the point, isn’t? For all I know he could be the mole and working for them instead! I can’t trust him!”</p>
<p>“Look, Kathryn. You’ve been undercover for what? Two years? More?”</p>
<p>“Something like that.”</p>
<p>Chakotay sat on the stairs, his legs not supporting him anymore. He had not realised until now how heavily the thought that Kathryn might be an art thief had been weighing on him. But now, hearing the truth, or a part of it at any case, it made sense she was on the right side of the law. There was a certain inevitability to it. There’d been hints all the way that she wasn’t who she claimed to be, but she was practised at masking who she really was. Were there more layers he would have to strip off her to discover who lay underneath?</p>
<p>“Two years looking over your shoulder at every noise is too long. No wonder you don’t trust anybody,” B’Elanna stressed.</p>
<p>“I trust you.”</p>
<p>“Are you sure? Because whatever you did to your leg, it doesn’t look like a hamstring to me.”</p>
<p>There was no response from Kathryn, and Chakotay couldn’t help a smile. B’Elanna Torres had never shied away from telling the facts as she saw them. The two women seemed to know each other well, so he lingered, not sorry for eavesdropping.</p>
<p>“All right,” came Torres’ voice again. “I clearly don’t need to know what happened to you yesterday. And yes, the pieces you…relocated from the Tate are genuine, as far I can see, but I'm no expert in modern art, you know that. You’d be better off asking one of your specialists.”</p>
<p>A mumbled response which sounded like a no. Whoever Kathryn was working for was keen on secrecy.</p>
<p>“Look. Chakotay could be a real asset to you. That operation in LA I told you about? When I first met him? It was tough from the word go. Months of undercover work. Dozens of police involved. He was in charge of an LAPD task force looking into the art theft angle. I only got brought in at the end, just before the shooting, to authenticate the stolen artefacts before repatriating them to the Yucatán government.”</p>
<p>A chair screeched over the concrete floor. “There was a shooting?”</p>
<p>“Chakotay’s partner turned against him and the other officers who had gone to arrest the gang leader. She’d been working for the bad guys all along while on the task force. A nasty piece of work she was. The whole thing ended in a blood bath, with two officers dead and Chakotay badly injured. He resigned soon after, but I didn’t know he’d joined Interpol. They are lucky to have him.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t realise.” Kathryn’s voice dipped.</p>
<p>“From where I stand, you could do worse than ask for his help. I know how gung-ho you can get. You’ve been doing it all alone for too long.”</p>
<p>“After what he’s gone through? No, I can’t get him involved. But thanks for coming at such short notice. You’d better be going before he—”</p>
<p>“Ladies,” Chakotay said, stepping in the room. “Is that banana pancakes I can smell?”</p>
<p>Kathryn looked up, eyes wide, then frowned, probably wondering how long he’d been listening to the conversation. B’Elanna jumped from her chair before pulling him into a quick embrace. “Chakotay? What are you doing here? Kathryn didn’t say…Oh, I see…” She smirked, looking at Kathryn and earning herself a glare, and then at Chakotay who just smiled.</p>
<p>“It’s good to see you again, B’Elanna. Since when did you move to England?” he exclaimed, helping himself to coffee from the gurgling machine as if spending the night in an abandoned factory in Oxford with a would-be thief were an everyday occurrence for him.</p>
<p>“I’m only here until Wednesday. A conference on Mesoamerican studies at Oxford’s Institute of Cultural Anthropology. It's—”</p>
<p>“—And you were just dropping by?” he asked innocently before she launched into her favourite subject. There was no stopping her when she got going as he’d found out on that ill-fated LAPD job. Not that he’d minded. He had learned a lot from her.</p>
<p>He added a large dash of milk to his coffee before pouring a ladle of pancake batter into the pan. B’Elanna must have brought the grocery bag he could see in the corner of the room. Kathryn's bag was nearby, a few small objects poking through the opened zipper. She’d discarded her black outfit and changed into everyday clothes, a coat on the back of the chair.</p>
<p>“Well…” B’Elanna looked at Kathryn who crossed her arms, stone-faced. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Kathryn!”</p>
<p>The ring of a cell phone interrupted her. She punched the screen hard. “Yes? What? In an hour?” She looked at her watch. “You could have given me a bit more notice. All right, yes, not a problem.” She turned the phone off and hastily put her jacket on. “I’ve been asked to move my keynote presentation on cultural heritage protection to this morning. A late withdrawal, looks like. I’ve got to go.”</p>
<p>Jacket in one hand, laptop bag in the other, she pointedly glowered at each in turn. “You two, you need to talk. Chakotay, meet Kathryn Janeway, formerly from UNESCO’s Bureau on Illicit Trafficking of Cultural Property, now at Interpol. Kathryn, meet Chakotay, formerly from LAPD, now also at Interpol.”</p>
<p>She strode off, then shouted, “And get the man to have another look at that leg, Kathryn,” before opening and then closing the roller door behind her.</p>
<p>“Does it hurt?” Chakotay asked, wiping his hands on a towel.</p>
<p>“A little,” she conceded to his surprise. Before he could move, she put her hand up. “I had a look at it this morning and changed the bandage. It’s as fine as it can be.”</p>
<p>“No smell? No discharge?”</p>
<p>She smiled. “No, Doctor. And thank you for what you did yesterday. It could have turned ugly.”</p>
<p>He turned back to his pancake. First things first. “So, you’re working undercover for Interpol.”</p>
<p>Kathryn huffed and then threw her arms in the air. “What’s the point? You’ve heard everything. Yes, I’m with Interpol. Head of Special Projects. Based in Lyon. But you can’t—"</p>
<p>He whistled. “Head of Special Projects? Under Director Nechayev?”</p>
<p>“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed, but she added nothing.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t tell me more, please. After all, I’m only a lowly senior officer from a small US provincial branch.” He was feeling snarky now. “Or are you more concerned about —” he waved his hand between them— “us?”</p>
<p>She got up. “There is no ‘us’. Surely you can understand why I should never…well, why we can’t…”</p>
<p>There was something fascinating and utterly frustrating about watching her try to get out of a situation she so obviously regretted now. “It was a mistake for me to engage in such behaviour,” she said with finality in her voice, pacing the room with a limp and making him wince. “We are working for the same organisation, which I didn’t realise until I searched your pockets that first night we met. And yes, I’m under cover. I was feeling sorry for myself that evening, and it won’t happen again. End of the matter.”</p>
<p>Feeling sorry for herself? The woman had a knack for aggravating him using only a few words. And she’d searched his pockets. Great detective he was. “Well then, I won’t sully your reputation any further,” he threw back, sliding the cooked pancake onto a plate and pushing it towards her. “Sit. You need to eat.”</p>
<p>Her glare could have frozen his coffee. He let it glide over him. By the time he’d cooked his own breakfast and sat down at the table, Kathryn was playing with her pancake, moving bits of it around the plate.</p>
<p>“So, what now?” He tilted his head at the bag. “What were you going to do with the pieces you stole?”</p>
<p>“That last job should have given me access to the inner sanctum of the consortium I’ve been after for two years. But now…” She sounded defeated.</p>
<p>He well understood the feeling, having spent hundreds of hours undercover himself along the years, but it had rarely been for more than a few weeks at a time, a couple of months at most. Kathryn had nothing to show for throwing her real life away for much longer. He felt bad for having messed up her plans.</p>
<p>“B’Elanna’s right, you know,” he said, tucking into the pancake with more enthusiasm than he felt. He was pleased when he saw Kathryn imitating him. “What about we work together? Combine our experience. There must be something I can help you with.”</p>
<p>“After what happened to you in LA?” Her hand landed on his arm, and he looked up into concerned grey eyes. “That’s why you moved to Interpol, didn’t you? Most ex-cops employed by Interpol want to get away from the violence and the shootings.”</p>
<p>Her fingers were clean of blood, and he wished it had been that easy for him. “True,” he said.</p>
<p>She remained silent, leaving him to decide whether to continue. He wasn’t ready to talk about betrayal and hurt, but he wanted her to know he’d made his choice. “After I left the hospital, I realised that a cop with PTSD is a danger to everybody, colleagues and criminals alike. I retired, stayed in a small village on my ancestral land, cut myself from the world. But I didn’t find the peace I was looking for. Deep down, I was still a policeman, and that’s how I ended up at Interpol. I still want to do what’s right.”</p>
<p>It had always been about taking one day at a time since the shooting. No actual plan, no real future. Even his move to Interpol had been more about happenstance, the chance sighting of a job ad on the internet, than deep reflection. And while he wasn’t unhappy there, he’d felt a fraud at times for avoiding his problems by dealing with the world of fancy museums and expensive art dealings. What better way to face his demons once and for all than by helping her?</p>
<p>He put his hand over hers. Ultimately, it had to be her choice to let him in. “I understand if you don’t want to take a chance with me. Frankly, I’m not sure if I would trust myself either, especially if there’s another firefight.”</p>
<p>Especially if she were the one to get caught in the middle again.</p>
<p>She let out a slight chuckle. “You’ve proven yourself in my eyes. But how can you be sure I’m not crooked and stealing art works on the side for profit?”</p>
<p>He shrugged. History couldn’t repeat itself, could it? He had trusted Seska. Had a relationship with her while they were working together. And it had all ended in carnage. “I can’t,” he conceded, “but I’ll take that risk. Maybe I can give you some advice. Or I can phone a few contacts. Whatever you want from me until you are back on your two feet.”</p>
<p>She looked at him for a few moments, her eyes moving along his face, brushing over his tattoo before resting over his lips. And when he smiled, she blushed, and it was a sight to behold to see the pink spread across her cheeks, a woman who was as much at ease among the high end of the art world as with the crooks. She licked her lips and leaned ever so slightly over the table as if mesmerised. He would have happily kissed her if she hadn’t flinched when she shifted on her chair.</p>
<p>The moment had gone, and she focused back on her plate, finishing eating. “I could do with the help, I must admit. I don’t think I can outrun the villains all by myself.”</p>
<p>He busied himself with taking the now-empty plates and filling up the sink. “Cavit is part of that gang you are pursuing, isn’t he? He’s the one who helped you get inside.”</p>
<p>“Yes, and he was supposed to oversee my escape, and give me new instructions at the same time. I’ve been slowly climbing up the ranks doing one job at a time, getting new instructions leading to a bigger job, then more instructions. Each job with a different contact. But now, I am at a dead end. Without Cavit, I’ll have to retrace my steps, contact the person who introduced me to him, but that could take days. And she probably doesn’t know who’s next up the ladder.”</p>
<p>“Simple then. We need to talk to Cavit.”</p>
<p>“How? He’s probably in police custody by now. I can’t get to him.”</p>
<p>“No, but I can.”</p>
<p>A grin came to her when a faint noise at the roller door made her lift her hand to ask for his silence.</p>
<p>“B’Elanna came back?” Chakotay asked in a low voice, watching Kathryn grab her coat off the chair and the bag. Her urgency made him stand too.</p>
<p>“She would have phoned. And if it was the police, they would have announced themselves. This way.”</p>
<p>Kathryn flicked a switch at a power point on the wall, and the fridge silently glided sideways, uncovering a small trap-door.</p>
<p>“Well, don’t stand there gawking. Go ahead and I’ll pass you the bag.”</p>
<p>He lifted the door to uncover a short ladder. Climbing down, he grabbed the bag and watched helplessly as Kathryn hopped down a few rungs on one leg then closed the door over her head before resuming her descent.</p>
<p>“Press the button to your right,” she said. Dull lights came on and he assumed the fridge had glided back into place. It would buy them some time.</p>
<p>“Where are we?” he asked as he caught up with Kathryn. The air was stale, and water dripped down the back of his neck from the low ceiling. Muted noises from above indicated that whoever had barged in was searching the place thoroughly.</p>
<p>“One of Oxford’s underground tunnels. This city is like an onion. There’re tunnels, crypts, wells, even taverns built underground, connecting to each other. This part dates from the 14<sup>th</sup> century and ultimately links to the old Jewish quarter, but we are not going there.”</p>
<p>“How do you know all this?” He avoided a dip in the ceiling just in time. He had no idea where they were, his usually well-developed sense of direction confused by the sharp turns Kathryn was taking without hesitation, the lights dimming behind them.</p>
<p>“My parents spent a few years teaching at Oxford when I was a teenager. My mom is a theoretical mathematician and my dad was an archaeologist. I used to tag along with his classes during the school holidays. One of his undergraduate students found this tunnel and I spent two summers helping to dig it up.”</p>
<p>“And that’s why you chose the factory as a safe house?”</p>
<p>“Once I went undercover, I realised I needed a safe pied-à-terre in England. You never know when you need to make a quick exit.”</p>
<p>He could hear rumblings not far away. Was there a subway in Oxford?</p>
<p>At the end of the tunnel, they stopped near a small wooden door with a shining combination padlock on it. Kathryn was gasping a little, but didn’t seem too bothered by her injury. “The student,” — a sigh came to her and she lowered her gaze — “Justin…” She shook her head as if to rid herself of painful memories and entered the numbers in the padlock. “He found out the tunnel exit ended under the factory, and of course that was the end of the digging. When I came back to England, I remembered the location. It was then just a matter of renting the place through an alias and using a jackhammer.”</p>
<p>She put her hand on the old ornate door handle and listened. There were no sounds of a pursuit.</p>
<p>Chakotay was intrigued by her sudden wistfulness, but it wasn’t his place to ask about that student who obviously meant a lot to her. They had more pressing issues, such as finding out who the people after them were, and where they were going.</p>
<p>The door opened slowly, and Kathryn stole a glance. “Good. Nobody’s in sight.” She took Chakotay’s hand and they stepped onto another corridor, that one much better lit and mostly occupied by a large conveyor belt.</p>
<p>A cart full of old books rattled along, and they followed it before emerging into a much larger room with people busy receiving and sending books up small elevators. Looking as if she belonged, Kathryn trudged past them, and a few minutes later Chakotay was standing in bright sunshine, the Bodleian library’s tall windows gleaming behind them.</p>
<p>He regretted not to have more time to spend in the hallowed aisles of one of the most renowned repositories of knowledge in the world. He’d be back, he promised himself, but only when the job was finished.</p>
<p>Kathryn halted at the top of the stairs leading to the street below. “What now?” she asked as if to herself.</p>
<p>“How do you feel about becoming a lawyer for a few hours?” Chakotay said, threading his arm through hers.</p>
<p>“Cavit?” she asked, leaning a little closer.</p>
<p>“As an Interpol agent, I have the right to see him and bring a lawyer with me if I see fit. He’s hardly going to incriminate himself by spilling the bins about when he saw you last. If he’s been questioned by the policy, of course. If he’s still at large, I know a few people who can track him down discreetly for us.”</p>
<p>“Please, show the way,” she said with a grin, and they strode together into a brand-new day.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is my own interpretation of what Interpol officers should be doing. Which is far from what they really do.<br/>The painting behind the manip, <a href="https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/435702">The Horse Fair,</a> can be found in Gallery 812 at the Met.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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